


Showing and Telling

by FlourishBelle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:55:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlourishBelle/pseuds/FlourishBelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of a tiff, Mycroft decides it's time to show Lestrade how he feels, rather than tell him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Showing and Telling

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe it's the fact that Valentine's Day is around the corner but this totally popped into my head, so I just rolled with it. Totally fluffy!

There were roses sitting on the counter one morning. They were dark red roses, fresh, full, and gorgeous. Love and sweet apology hung in the air on their scent, mixing with coffee and the promise of a new morning. Lestrade ambled toward the siren song of these scents, momentarily forgetting the throbbing in his temples and anger that kept his spine rigid. A mug of coffee sat still steaming next to the bouquet, set just behind a handwritten note. Something bitter rose in him at the perfectly artful arrangement of the whole thing.

_Let me show you._

_-M_

What the hell does that mean? Okay, so maybe his curiosity was peaked. He thought about the work day ahead of him, and sighed heavily. It was only when he checked his phone and found no messages that he remembered his headache and his frustration rewound itself around his spine.

When Lestrade arrives at work that morning, he flops down in his chair, already exhausted. It’s the type of emotional exhaustion that runs bone deep. A quiet knock on the door, and Sally lets herself in.

“Alright sir?”

“Yeah, yeah. Alright.” Though he’s clearly not. She smirks.

“I was told to give you this.” She drops a creamy white envelope on his desk, and a single word stands out in elegant black script on the front. _Gregory._ Even the icy anger in him melts for this. He’d know Mycroft’s handwriting anywhere.

“Thanks, Sal.” She nods smiling, and leaves quietly.

Lestrade is pretty sure that he has never read anything so quickly before in his life. And once he’s finished he reads it a second, third, eighth time. Its almost stream of consciousness writing in the form of the letter. It’s a meditation of their time together so far, written as elegantly as he would expect of Mycroft. It’s almost as if he has stepped into his head for a moment, and Mycroft has finally given him the key. He realizes how impossible such a simple thing must be for a man who has to serve and protect the secrets of the British nation on a daily basis, and treasures both the letter and the trust it took to be able to write it. His iron sense of self-preservation has climbed in between the two of them in the past, and for him to put it aside and write this is an indescribable gift. 

He’s mulling it over, feeling the cracks in the ice spider outwards when he receives a phone call about a murder downtown.

The next letter comes from John Watson.

The good doctor’s grinning like the cat who ate the canary when he and Sherlock, looking more put-upon than usual, arrive at the crime scene.

“Do I wanna know why you look so pleased with yourself?” Lestrade sees Sherlock roll his eyes in his periphery, and only smirks.

“I dunno, do you?” He asks, pulling a cream-colored envelope out of his jacket pocket and holding it out. Lestrade’s laugh is short and full of warmth, he smiles in disbelief.

“Oh. Of course. When did he get to you?”

“I can’t-” John begins. 

“He delivered it to John approximately an hour ago at Baker street. He had obviously hoped that he would be able to deliver the letter without my knowledge which was foolish of him, as per usual. From the script on the front, quality of the paper, and the fact that he asked John to deliver it rather than giving it himself, I realized that it was some attempt at...a romantic gesture, an apology of sorts which indicates some mistake on Mycroft’s part. Which anyone could have predicted from a mile away.” Sherlock spews all this with his usual measured boredom, hands clasped behind his back. He looks at John, “I believe you called me a drama queen?” John Watson only glares up at him.

“I’m sorry, I seemed to have forgotten that he can’t socialize with normal humans and so shouldn’t be allowed to do so. Ever again.” Lestrade only laughs.

“S’alright. No harm done. Thanks for the letter, mate. Glad he didn’t kidnap you for it.” He wanders off to read the piece of Mycroft’s mind, savoring every word, and marveling at the love it must have taken to convince him to write it.

When he returns to New Scotland Yard, Greg sits as his desk to read the letter again, but before he pulls it out, he sees the paper. Highlighted in yellow are single words throughout the page that seem, at first to be random. Together they read, “With you, my world knows color.” Smiling so widely, he feels that he’ll burst, Lestrade flips through the paper quickly looking for any more clues. Page five, Opinions. Page thirteen, World. Page seventeen, Features. The highlighter messages are scattered throughout the paper until he reaches the crossword puzzle in the back. A new clue has been handwritten beneath the others. “Will you?” It asks. Number sixteen down is the only answer filled in. It reads, “Dinner tonight?”

Lestrade doesn’t actually remember the commute home. What he does remember is making that commute as soon as humanly possible. He takes the steps up to his flat two at a time, anxious and eager for what he may find at the top. The kitchen counter now hosts the roses in a beautiful vase, trimmed and watered. They sit beside a glass of wine and another note.

_Come see the stars with me._

_-M_

Emotion swells and bubbles within him, so much so that he can hardly contain it. Taking a sip of the wine, Lestrade carries it with him as he makes his way up to the rooftop, his heart singing in anticipation. When the opens the door, his breath catches in his lungs. A table and two chairs are set in the center of the open patio, a white tablecloth over it, candles and more roses arranged artfully in the center. More importantly though, Mycroft stands in front of the table, in a beautiful suit, his hands behind his back. His smile is soft, and hopeful.

“Mycroft, I…”He tries but the words suddenly fail him. “Thank you. For everything, all day. I can’t believe all the stuff you’ve done. I just…” He smiles, shaking his head. Mycroft comes up to him, taking his hands.

“I could have told you how sorry I am. I could have told you how deeply I have fallen in love with you Gregory. I could have tried to explain it all away, but in the end they are all just words” There is nothing quite like hearing the L-word for the first time and nothing that could take Lestrade’s grin in this moment. “I love you, and I wanted to show you. I wanted to give you more than just my words because you are worth so much more than that to me.” The breathtaking, consuming, loving, passionate kiss that follows seems the only right way to respond. Lestrade showers his lover in kisses up his neck, his jaw, those cheekbones, and finally his lips, murmuring “I love you too” against his skin.

Words can wield much power, heal many wounds, pass on much wisdom, but love is different. It takes on the form of so many different things, and while it may live in our words, it sings through our actions, and as Greg and Mycroft embraced on the roof that night, there was no doubt in either mind that love sings in the sweetest key.


End file.
